And I Think To Myself
by Mellaithwen
Summary: Tag on 2x20, What Is And What Should Never Be. Dean never forgot his mother's birthday.


**And I Think To Myself**

**By Mellaithwen.**

****

**Rating: T**

**Genre: Angst/Drama**

**Disclaimer: Not mine, not mine, not miiine.**

**Summary: Tag on 2x20, What Is And What Should Never Be. Dean never forgot his mother's birthday.**

* * *

"I see you started off mom's birthday with a bang, as usual." Sam says to his brother as he steps around the car and pretends not to be incredibly disturbed by how touchy-feely Dean's acting as they arrive in Lawrence. He frowns at the bottle of beer in his brother's fingers, and voices his distaste.

"Wait," Dean gulps, eyes darting, "Mom's birthday, that's today?"

"Yeah, Dean, that's today," Sam reminds Dean, though the older brother should know, because he _should_ know. "That's why we're here." He continues, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. "Don't tell me you forgot?"

Dean tries to laugh, smirk his way out of it when really the guilt-trip he anticipates has already wormed its way in. _Shit_.

He ushers Sam and Jess—_Jess, here, now, alive, god that's good_—into the house, makes as much small talk as possible, before running down the road.

He keeps running, very glad of the spare dollars he'd left in this particular pair of pants, until he finds a store that sells birthday cards, cursing all the way.

* * *

When Sam tells him...When he's reminded and a surge of cold dread punches him in the gut, drops in the bottom of his stomach and worry and fear and pain tingle up his spine as his hands shake...

_Oh god._

When all of this happens, suddenly, it's not about him anymore.

This isn't his world, he shares it with others and today's their mother's birthday, their mother's _day_.

The thought of ruining it—when he can't even remember spending one with her—scares him to the core.

Later on, when he's standing by his father's grave and wondering why the hell his perfect world didn't include John Winchester, he'll realise his thoughts when he was attacked, in the back of his mind, deep down, his thoughts were only about his mother.

Because her birthday was coming up. Because her birthday is today.

And another Winchester holiday would pass by in the blink of an eye with only two left alive to celebrate it.

The Djinn grabbed it, took it, made it; and lo' and behold, Mary Winchester lives. For a little while, anyway. In Dean's head, at least, which Dean knows is better than nothing. It has to be.

* * *

He never forgot his mother's birthday. It didn't matter what state line they'd crossed on the road for a hunt, it didn't matter however many miles they were away from Lawrence, from home, he always, _always_ wished her a happy birthday. Toasted a beer in her name, revved the car that little bit faster, sang louder and with more vigour, to Zeppelin or Metallica.

When he was five years old, he didn't know his mother's birthday. He didn't know why his father was staring at his hands at the foot of the bed. He didn't know why his father didn't speak. He didn't understand when daddy left them in their new neighbours care for the weekend.

When he was six, he made _sure_ he knew.

He'd written it down on pads from hotels and motels across the country and crumpled the little pieces of paper into his jeans pockets. After laundry day he'd find the paper—now soft as tissue, ink pressed into the lining of his pockets—devoid of any information, and he'd write it down again.

He left his father to his melancholy and added _Happy Birthday_ to his nightly prayers.

By the time he was nine years old, he'd stopped believing whole-heartedly, but he still whispered the blessing in case there was a single chance that someone might hear.

Someone like Mom.

* * *

Eleven years old and he's sitting alone in the back of the class.

He's already had several warnings about throwing paper aeroplanes, jet fighters, paper tanks—and god knows how the hell he managed that—with several other paper _things_ that make the teacher wonder if origami comes naturally to Dean Matthews.

Because that's his name this term, they had to make the credit cards, bills and registrations match.

A name change is no big deal, and at eleven Dean's a pro at lying.

Eleven years old, and even though his first hunt didn't go so well, Dean's vastly improved since then, and he's got a damn good shot. A perfect aim. A good eye, his father says. A born hunter, Dean thinks.

Eleven years old and Dean can take care of a spirit on his own if he really has to.

Eleven years old and he's been taking care of Sammy for as long as he can remember.

Eleven years old and he can tip the melted silver from the pan to the bullet casing mould without spilling a single drop.

Eleven years old and he knows to tip down at least three of the six-pack of beer down the sink, knowing full well that his father will be too sad to even notice.

Eleven years old and he's cutting shapes out of card that mean nothing and are nothing. Coloured bits of paper that will be tossed away at the end of the day while stray squares and triangles without a clue fall under tables and slip through the cracks of age-old desks.

_Snip, snip, snip. Fold, rip. Repeat, twist, bend, break_.

He's supposed to be making a mother's day card but you'd never know it from the piles of blue, green, yellow and red card.

His teacher has no tact, no clue, and Dean has no intention of stopping his bombardment of planes either.

Warning, be damned.

* * *

Fifteen years old, and Dean's in Idaho. John's found a nice house, clean, spiritually and literally and it's perfect for him and the boys. It's too good to be true, which explains why John never relaxes for a second they're there.

Dean's got a girl hanging on his arm within a week of their moving in. This time, he walks into school as the cool kid with the leather jacket. The rebellious attitude that puts some teachers on edge and makes others smile as he charms his way out of detention but works hard enough to earn himself that A.

He meets her as she leans against the wrong locker. She moves as soon as she notices and blushes when she sees the new kid, when she sees Dean. She flirts a little when he smiles and they eat lunch together as friends. Leaving as more. Auburn hair, bright eyes, and laugh that isn't quite so high-pitched and annoying as the other girls he's met.

At the time, at this age, he thinks she's beyond perfect.

But he can't tell her anything.

And it has nothing to do with his father's warnings. He doesn't care if the villagers chase them away for hunting evil. _For bringing it in._ None of it matters as long as she's not the one doing the chasing, but he still can't utter a single word about his past to her. Not one. He'll talk about anything, everything, just not..._that_.

Thinking back, he's pretty sure her name was Louise but it might have been Lucy.

She suggests a birthday card when he lets slip what day it is. And by now, he's so deep within his own lies of a perfect family and a perfect life that he dares not defy her sweet request.

He spends fifteen minutes in the _Happy Birthday Mom_ aisle of the card-shop before giving up and running outside. Breathing ragged he sees fire and flames hidden behind balloons and teddy bears and pretty calligraphy that makes him ill.

"_I guess girls are better at this kinda thing."_ Louise, or Lucy, smiles as she passes him the card she's bought on his behalf. Dean mutters _thanks_ and they hold hands walking home. Dean considers the weight of her palm in his own instead of the burden of the card in the pocket of his leather jacket.

It was Louise, he remembers with clarity when his strength returns and he's no longer white as a sheet, with trembling hands—fingers long deprived of the proper circulation as he's hung like meat on a hook, drained of blood and thrust into a world that isn't real. Louise, he's sure, when reality is _real_ and Sam is casting sidelong glances of worry in Dean's reaction every five seconds because they nearly lost each other, again.

"_I forgot mom's birthday."_ He doesn't say to Sam during their motel room heart-to-heart.

"Happy birthday," He whispers, a minute before midnight. And hears nothing in return.

_**-Fin.**_

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